


Thirty of a Hundred Souls

by SpellCleaver



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirates of the Caribbean Fusion, Angst, Gen, It's basically POTC 2 with Luke as Will and Vader as Bootstrap, Movie: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, Whump, is it Major Character Death if the death isn't permanent, some fluff if you squint?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27559237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpellCleaver/pseuds/SpellCleaver
Summary: "Obi-Wan Kenobi sent me here to settle the debt."Luke sneaks aboard theImperial, the ship widely known to be the scourge of the seas, crewed by dead men who sold their souls to Sidious. He's here to save his father.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader
Comments: 28
Kudos: 131





	1. The Second Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coleroz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coleroz/gifts).



> This fic is dedicated to the wonderful Cole Roz for no particular reason other than that they're a fantastic artist and writer and they always give me SO MANY IDEAS! This was inspired by their art [here](https://coleroz.tumblr.com/post/637172882724847616/pirates-of-the-caribbean-au-read-the).
> 
> For the first chapter I want to warn for some graphic violence--Luke doesn't have a fun time.

The waves broke against the side of the dying ship and Luke grunted as he clambered up her side, shaking from the cold. He was soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his forehead, eyes stinging, but he gripped the edge like a vice, the wood slick and splintering under his hands, and hauled himself on board.

His back hit the deck with a thud. He groaned.

On every ship he'd ever been on, there had been movement. Shouting, laughter from below decks, the ship rocking and keeling, ropes and sails swinging in the wind. There was no shouting here, and no movement, not really—she had run aground, rocks punching through the hull like when that bullet had punched through Biggs's skull. Water was lapping up the sides hungrily, pooling at his feet.

The only _movement_ was the gentle swaying of the sails and the creaking of the mast—gentle, despite the fact that it had been storming. The moment he'd come on board the lashing rain had ceased, a single thread of moonlight had hung from the clouds to limn the doomed ship in silver, and he'd found his way.

_You know what to say, Luke?_ echoed in his head.

_I know what to say, Ben._

He heard no sailors' shouts; he heard no loud guffaws. All he heard were…

Muttered, frantic prayers.

He turned his head and saw them all lined up already, and suddenly saw what he couldn't fathom not having seen before. Shadows were moving, peeling themselves off the sides of the ship like they were made of the barnacles that lived there, and— and if the legends were true—

"You there!"

Luke whipped his head around—too late. He cried out as a humanoid mound of crustaceans, seaweed and shells seized his wrist, twisting him round to drag him forwards. This creature—person, damned sailor—barely had eyes, just two oyster pearls that gleamed under the waning light of the moon.

"Get in line."

In the middle of the ship, just behind the capstan, he shoved Luke to his knees, shoulder-to-shoulder with some poor, terrified soul whose hands were plastered together, his lips trembling in prayer. There was a static patch of red on his torso, where cloth and bone had been cleaved.

Luke turned his head slightly to observe the next man along—blue-lipped, blue-fingered, shivering and gasping for air Luke doubted he needed any more. Then the next, then—

"Is this all of them?" rasped a cruel voice.

It immediately sent chills down Luke's spine—it sounded like when the rudder scraped rock, like the grinding of a ship's wood crushed and folded by waves. His breathing was just as harsh—gravel on gravel, with every heave of his crustaceous chest.

Luke glanced at him. His face was half-coral, the cheekbone and brow strong and bone-white, parts of little broken barnacles and shells embedded in his neck on the way up and thick, long hair flowing around his shoulders, intertwined with seaweed. When he tilted his head to observe the line of poor souls dragged before him, Luke noticed that his right eyeball was a polished black pearl, with a vicious amber iris sat inside it.

"These are the men?" he asked.

"The ones who haven't passed."

"Good. Get them lined up. He will be here soon."

Luke shuddered and resisted the urge to buck, to struggle, as rough hands seized him again and forced him back in line from where he hadn't even realised he'd drifted out of it, forcing his head to the floor. The damp deck scraped under the man's boots as he walked up and down the line, flicking… _something_ —a whip?—at his side.

"A poor stock," he rasped, "but it's only the souls who death leaves behind."

Then the boots stilled in front of Luke.

His gaze was fixed to them. So worn they had holes in them—holes that were thriving with lichen, little shellfish hiding in the folds of colourless leather, algae growing on the laces. He kept his gaze fixed on them as the man stopped in front of him and stared.

"You…" he said at last. "You are not dead."

Luke bit his tongue and said nothing.

_Speak only to Sidious._

_Speak only to Sidious._

_He has a poisoned tongue, but only he will know the deal you speak of—_

The man lashed out. The butt of his whip caught Luke across the face, hard. Blood filled his mouth; he gasped and spat it out before he choked on it.

Before he could close his mouth again the man caught his chin in his hand and gripped it, so tight it ached. At least his fingertips weren't covered in algae or coral the way his knuckles and arm was, though they still smell fishy.

The man peered inside his mouth. "You do have a tongue, boy," he said, then released his jaw—hard, shoving him back as he did. "You can talk. Do so."

He raised his whip again—Luke's split lip and black eye throbbed at the sight of it. "You are not dead. Nor dying."

"Vader," one of the men said, "he's coming."

"I know he is. So we want to make sure this living boy is either dead or gone by the time he gets here. _Speak_."

Luke swallowed and got out—"I— was supposed to speak to Sidious only—"

Another strike. He jerked his head back and felt blood drip through his eye, from his forehead. His head rang like the bells in Mos Eisley whenever pirates were hanged.

"I am his right hand. You _will_ tell me what you are doing here, or I will make your curiously alive state a brief one—"

"Obi-Wan Kenobi sent me to settle the debt."

Vader froze, the butt of his whip raised.

Then he brought it down with a thousand times more Force than before. Luke's head slammed back.

He spat out a tooth. "Ow."

" _Kenobi_ sent you?" Vader growled. "K—"

"What is this?"

Luke… didn't want to lay eyes on what Sidious was.

It was hideous. He— _what_.

He'd heard legends about Sidious, the terror of the sea, who observed all dead sailors and commanded the kraken who'd been chasing Ben for so long he'd confined himself to life in Luke's dusty sea port, who claimed souls to work on his ship until their debt was paid—

Luke stared.

He looked like an old man, at first glance. An old man in a long robe, who was slightly hunched over but walked and swayed in time with the ship, whose presence made the half-men, half-monsters around him cringe away in fear. But Luke blinked, and his cloak was a part of him, thick and wrinkled like a blue whale's throat pleats; squinted, and his aging face was white sand that crumbled and shifted with every motion, lined with driftwood and seaweed and detritus at the high tide mark; his white, gnarled hands were shell and coral, spiked and cold.

When he stopped in front of Luke, those hands shot out to grip his soft, flesh chin, and they drew blood.

"You look familiar, boy. And I have not met a living soul in a long, long time."

Luke, despite the tight grip on his jaw, tried to get out again, "Obi-Wan Kenobi sent me to settle the debt."

"I heard you the first time." He stepped back, his robes heaving like the tides around him, like the black fathoms swallowing him whole. "You look _very_ familiar."

He traced the area over Luke's eye, and made a clawing motion—Luke frowned, but didn't dare move to bat his hands away.

"How many souls?"

Luke had been prepared for this question.

He had no idea what this question was supposed to mean.

So he just said, tentatively, the answer that Ben had given him. He had to trust Ben. They had a plan. "Thirty."

Gasps resounded, and guffaws. Luke was too cold to mind the fact that his face heated up, he flushed bright red, but he kept his chin high and looked Sidious in the eye. Then his defiant gaze slid to Vader, whose grip tightened on his whip again. That pearl eye of his glinted, unmoving from Luke's face.

Sidious's laugh was the worst of all—like the clattering of claws across the deck. But it cut off abruptly.

"Kenobi is as foolish, idealistic as ever, I see. As much of a backstabber as well." Sidious's smile dropped. "I accept that offer." The laughter stopped abruptly; silence resounded. "Vader, you know what to do with him."

"And the other sailors, Master?"

Sidious surveyed them cruelly. The man beside Luke was still praying—he'd taken one look at the creatures around them and closed his eyes.

"A man worth thirty souls," he said, giving Luke a viciously amused glance, "should be all that we need to crew the ship. These men are already dead."

Knives flew out. Luke turned his head away as blood splattered—some hit his cheek and ran now to nestle in his soaked collar.

Vader seized the back of his neck and dragged him forwards.

"Come on, _boy_ ," he hissed. "Let's show you the ropes."

* * *

Vader did not show him the ropes. He dragged Luke onto the _Imperial_ , past the rigging and the sails and the capstan, and right into the pantry, where he shoved Luke up against the wall.

"Why are you here!?" he demanded. "Is Obi-Wan turning to even more naïve, idealistic fools to pay off his idiocy? Did he drag you in with promises of glory, of being a Jedi, then turn around and toss you to Sidious!?"

Luke swallowed, and didn't dare look away. Vader had him by his collar, up against the wall, and they were eye to eye. Those mismatched irises glared down at him.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," he choked out, repeated, "sent me to settle the debt."

Vader threw him to the side. "And why you!? Why are _you_ worth _thirty souls_?"

What in the world did that mean?

"I don't know. I just know why I'm here. Obi-Wan Kenobi—"

"You said that already." Vader backed off, then, but still loomed. Luke wondered at how the image of him silhouetted against racks upon racks of rations only increased his intimidating presence. "I want to know _why_. Why were you with Kenobi? What is he after? Does he still pursue the imbecilic quest of the Jedi, which incurred this debt in the first place? And is he recruiting young, heroic idiots to throw their lives away for a lost cause?" He looked Luke up and down, then scoffed.

Luke swallowed. "I am here—"

_To find Sidious's non-existent heart._

_To end the curse and the Imperial._

_To free the Jedi from their fear in hiding, and to free all you dead souls._

He desperately wanted to say, _I am here to save my father._

But Vader was Palpatine's right-hand man, and any mention of his father, Anakin Skywalker, would have Luke dead by his hand.

So he just said again, stoic—

"I am here to settle the debt."

So that the Jedi could go back to sailing the seas, chartering waters, exploring and helping and protecting, the way they had before Sidious had twisted them into their bartered deal.

So that they need not fear terrible beasts hunting them at every turn.

So that no one need fear Sidious again.

Vader said, "Then you are a fool." He shoved Luke out onto the deck of the ship; Luke stumbled but kept his balance. "And you have thrown away your life for a fool's cause."

He grabbed mop from the side of the pantry and tossed it at Luke; it was only sheer luck and instinct that had Luke catching it. He'd served as the lowliest grunt on sailing ships before.

Vader gave a bitter laugh. "Go scrub the deck below the foremast; it's caked in blood. Welcome to the _Imperial_ , Mister—"

"Mister Skywalker," Luke supplied without thinking, then immediately hoped Vader didn't recognise the name.

He turned away before he could see his reaction.

* * *

The decks were filthy. Shucked with blood, mud and something that stank that Luke didn't particularly want to think about. He'd long since abandoned the mop—it was too long; he'd already been decked by the crewmates several times for accidently waving it in their barnacled faces—and instead was on his hands and knees, skin scraped raw and stinging, back heaving and twinging with every swipe of the stiff-nailed brush. Every time the ship lurched, he fell on his face.

The sailors around him cackled.

He gritted his teeth, squared his shoulders, pushed himself back up—he was cleaning his own blood off the boards as well, now—and went right back to it.

_I am doing this for my father._

_I am doing this for my father._

_I am doing this… for my father…_

Someone kicked his side and he gasped, and looked up.

The person leered down at him; he knew this bully type, knew he should probably look away, but he didn't. Instead, he met that gaze, glaring right back, and the man—who looked like he'd died in his fifties, from what Luke could see through the algae that clung to his face like a beard and fuzzed up his eyebrows—scoffed at the audacity. Knocked Luke hard around the head.

"You're a new one, huh?" he laughed. "Well, that deck ain't ever gonna be clean—go do something useful. Like…" He raised his gaze. "Help raise the cannons."

Luke jerked his head up. He— he had never been allowed to do anything like that, he was too small, he— "What—"

"Catch."

He dropped the brush at once and caught the rope, hanging on as he glanced up to see the massive _thing_ crashing down.

It crashed down, and Luke crashed up.

He held on for dear life, dragging down on the rope with all his might, but this was a two-person job and— and the other guy was meant to be holding the other end and he _wasn't_ and—

Luke heard the cannon punch and splinter a few layers of wood, felt the rope go slack in his hands, and then he was falling.

He opened his eyes a few minutes later, head spinning, to footsteps chattering around him.

"The kid—"

"Already?"

"On your feet, gotta tell—"

"The captain—"

"Kenobi sells you for that many souls and you prove this poor of a sailor?" said a cruel voice. Luke flinched.

Sidious stepped forwards. Luke tried to summon the bravado he'd held not five minutes ago, but it was all gone. He trembled in his boots, his head throbbed in time with his hammering heart, and he could feel Sidious's cold breath on his skin.

"Ten lashes." Sidious turned away, and gestured to Vader, who'd seemingly materialised at his side—or maybe Luke's vision was blurring—hand twisted around his whip.

Luke's gaze flashed, wide-eyed, terrified, to Vader, but... Vader hesitated. "Skywalker here—"

_"Skywalker_ is a member of the crew," Sidious snarled. "He will receive the due punishment for destroying one of my cannons."

"And Ozzel…" Vader eyed the man who'd taunted Luke; he clearly knew what had happened.

"Was a witness to his idiocy, as were we all."

Ozzel nodded and puffed out his chest, grinning at Luke.

"Ten lashes," Sidious commanded again—then he looked at Luke's sorry state and paused. Luke was still wearing the ripped, soaked clothes on his back from before, face still bloodied, and he'd only accumulated more scratches and injuries. "No." He smiled. "Thirty."

The blood drained from Luke's face.

Vader did a double take. "You—"

"Thirty lashes. Appropriate, don't you think?"

Vader said nothing. Luke couldn't tell if his grip on his whip was white-knuckled, or if he just had bone-pale coral for hands.

"Do it, Vader. Or"—he glanced around—"Veers, you can also—"

"No." Vader jerked himself out of his reverie then, stepping forwards and holding his whip out to the side. "I will do it. Restrain him."

Luke's eyes blew wide as rough hands seized his arms, dragging him back, tearing the shirt off his torso to leave his back exposed then bending him over and—

Vader raised the whip.

Then he brought it down.

Fire lashed. Luke's roar was guttural, something that hurt his throat more than his ears, something that knotted in his lungs and drew so tight he couldn't breathe.

It came again. Laughter sprang up—he could hear it like birds chittering at the edge of his consciousness, Sidious's low rasp grinding against his skull. He bowed under the weight of the lash, feeling it kiss his shoulder like a stab wound. He screamed.

And again. And again. He shuddered, heat dripping from his back; he gasped, as Vader flicked his wrist and the whip's bite retracted. He didn't have it in him to scream so instead his moaned, his arms bruising as he strained against his captors.

A fifth one came, and he blinked. It had started raining fiercely at one point, at some point, chilling the raging fire on his back, dripping in his eyes and blurring the blood to pink to transparency, dripping onto the deck below. He hoped hysterically he wouldn't have to scrub this up, then laughed to himself hysterically—after thirty lashes?

After thirty lashes he wouldn't be alive.

Sidious had to know that.

Ben had handed him over to his death.

Vader paused for several pregnant beats as he watched Luke laugh, heaving painfully. He wondered what his mess of a back probably looked like; he decided he didn't care to know. Sidious observed them both.

"Stop," he said. "The boy is about to keel over with five. Might as well not kill Kenobi's latest payment too quickly."

The arms holding Luke let go and he collapsed, shaking.

"Back to your posts!"

The looming sailors dispersed, the floorboards creaking and groaning underneath him, and he could breathe. He stayed lying there for a while, chest and cheek to the rain-slick wood, feeling the rivulets work through his hair the way his aunt used to tousle it affectionately.

There was a gentle hair on his head now, just like then, and now a gentler one on his shoulder.

Not gentle enough. He tensed, hissing, crying out.

"Careful, Luke."

Luke snapped his eyes open at Vader's voice, scrambling to— to get up, to get to his feet—

"Hush, young one. You should not move."

"I need to get… back to my… post…"

"You need to rest."

He cracked his eyes open. "You…"

"Come, Luke. I've got you." Vader slid a careful hand under his elbow and got him to his feet, pointedly not touching anywhere near his back. He even gathered up the shreds of Luke's shirt around his torso to try to preserve some dignity, but Luke didn't see the point—it was thoroughly soaked in blood and water; translucent.

"I…" His head spun, but he thought… he was pretty sure… "I never told you my name."

"I think you did, Mister Skywalker."

"Not… Luke…"

Vader helped him down the ladder into the bowels of the ship, towards where Luke assumed the crew must stay, and he wondered if the men around them were staring at the pair like the world had gone insane. He wondered if the world _had_ gone insane.

He wondered if he had gone insane.

But there were worse insanities to suffer. Vader led him through the corridors, catching him when he stumbled over his feet with the rocking of the ship—he knew ships, knew the sea, never failed to find his sea legs, but something about the seas of the dead they were sailing was impossible for him to get a purchase on—then leading him into a small room. The ceiling was low, low enough that even Luke had to duck (painfully; everything was painful), let alone Vader, but it was nonetheless a relief to be guided into what looked like a proper bed, hard straw mattress and all, his legs trembling and giving out underneath him.

The pillow would've smothered him if Vader hadn't gently tilted his face to the side so he could breathe, sending twangs down his spine.

"You did not need to," Vader said softly. "Your mother… She was unequivocal on what she wanted to name our child."

Luke blinked, wondering if he'd imagined the words—wondering if he'd _imagined_ the way Vader's hand ran through his hair, the way Vader bowed his head in a moment of self-loathing and grief, before retracting and retreating—but then he closed his eyes and all was lost in a swathe of red darkness.

* * *

When he woke, it was to the coarse sensation of bandages scratched across his back.

He grimaced and dragged himself to his feet, glancing around. This was the tiny cabin expected of a ship—any cabin that wasn't the captain's, at least—and he… was surprised Vader had bothered to drag him here. Was… was this a medical room? Was this…

His eyes caught on a chest of clothes, and a cup sat loosely on the deck, and the thick taper on the wall burnt to a stub. He twisted the sheets in his fists.

Was this Vader's cabin?

Vader was the first mate. He was head of the ship besides Palpatine. Was he…?

What was happening?

What had he said?

Luke was fairly certain he'd been delirious, but the more he looked around, the more he felt his back—it really _had_ been heavily bandaged, and carefully treated, some sort of ointment—the less certain he became.

Surely…

_Vader…_

He stood up—swayed on his feet and winced when the rough wood rubbed against his bare skin. Apparently Vader had even taken his boots off, which…

He hadn't thought such gentleness existed on such a ship.

He hadn't thought Sidious would allow it.

He didn't bother finding his boots—he wasn't sure he could bend down to put them on anyway. He just staggered to his feet and pushed forwards, distantly remembering the way from the previous… night.

It wasn't like sailing ships had much room to spare to be complicated, anyway.

He struggled, and gritted his teeth, but by the time he'd hauled himself up he knew a few more things—mainly that it was night. It had to be. Firstly, it was too quiet to be day; from the sounds of it only the nightshift was running, the skeleton crew. Secondly, he could see stars above him.

When he emerged onto the deck, despite the agony in his back, he smiled. Just a little.

Then he saw Vader at the prow of the ship and limped towards him.

"Don't," Vader called. "Save your strength."

Luke huffed. "Only if you save your secrecy and start spouting answers right now," he shot back. Then, not quite able to keep the bitterness out of his voice: "You whipped me."

"If I had not, Veers would have. With his strength, it would have taken far fewer than five lashes to incapacitate you, young one. Permanently."

"And why do you care?" Luke lifted his chin. "You're—" He bit his tongue before he said it.

Vader said, "A monster?"

Luke said, "Yes."

Then he clenched his jaw and said, "But then you stuck me in your bed and took off my boots and put on bandages—"

"Should you not be wearing boots right now?"

"I didn't want to strain my back to put them on."

"But you were willing to climb a ladder and walk across deck barefoot just to talk to me?"

"Yes," Luke said bluntly. "And I want to ask why."

"Good. I also want to ask why."

Vader turned, suddenly, and _loomed_ , dark against the moonlight. Luke blew his eyes wide and couldn't help but take a step back.

"Ask… why…?"

"Why are you here, Luke Skywalker?"

Luke swallowed. "Obi-Wan Kenobi sent me to—"

"Find your father?"

Luke froze.

"Obi-Wan," he repeated, "sent me to settle—"

"An injustice. Right a wrong. Risk the son to rescue the father he risked all those years ago. Correct?"

Luke said nothing.

"What if your father does not want you here, Luke?" Vader said softly. "What if he was able to live his half-life so long as he knew you were far from Sidious, and the sea, and _safe_?"

Luke said, "And what if I don't want _you_ here, either?"

Vader flinched, his black pearl eye closing.

Luke took a pained step forwards, reaching for one of those coral-knuckled hands. "What if I want my father back?"

Vader squeezed his hands painstakingly gently. "Then you are a misguided fool with a heart big enough to sink a ship. You cannot save me, Luke. But you can save yourself."

"No," Luke insisted. "I _can_ save you. I came here to settle the debt." He took a deep breath and whispered. "I came here to kill Sidious."

Vader stiffened.

Turned his gaze on Luke.

"Sidious cannot be k—"

"I know about his heart—"

"His heart does not exist," came the bitter interjection.

"—and if I can find it, and stab it, he will die." Luke gritted his teeth, reached for his pocket and drew out a short blade. He'd had it since Uncle Owen had seen him get beaten up by the town kids one too many times. "I will not rest until I've found the chest, and this blade pierces his heart."

Vader shook his head.

"Luke. You have no idea what the cost will be."

"I'm willing to pay it!" he insisted. He was mortified to realise tears were running down his cheeks. "I— I _want you back_ , Father, and I want this debt _ended_ so Ben and Ahsoka and everyone can be safe, I want—"

"You want the impossible."

"You don't know me." The words were harsh—Vader flinched—but true, and Luke needed him to understand. "You don't know what I'm capable of. I _can_ do this."

"No."

Luke nearly threw his hands up in frustration. "I—"

"I know nothing about you," Vader said fiercely. But I know that you are injured, afraid, alone, and far more scared than you are letting on."

Luke frowned, and said nothing.

Vader lifted a hand to cup Luke's cheek. "And it seems that I've learnt that you will not give in."

Luke did let out a little huff of laughter, then. But it was mirthless.

"You will not give in. You are injured and fighting Sidious will do you no favours." Vader sighed. "Leave, Luke."

"What!? No!"

_"Leave."_

"I—" Luke lifted his chin, lips wobbling. The moonlight shone bright in his eyes. "I won't leave you!"

"And you won't," Vader agreed. "I will come with you, soon. I promise."

Luke said, "What?"

"If you leave," Vader promised, " _I_ will destroy the heart."

Luke froze.

Vader gave him a little push. "But only if you leave."

"If you can do it." Luke hesitated. "Why didn't you do it before?"

"What did I have to live for before?" Vader replied. "You were safer if I was his henchman, not his murderer, and not killed for mutiny."

Luke just said, "Please. I… I don't…"

"Me neither, son. And you will not." Vader gestured off the side of the ship. "There is a boat. A small one, but it shall get you to where you need to go. I will come and find you when the deed is complete. You will have to lie under the tarpaulin as you float away, to hide from any watchers."

Luke said, "Are you sure?"

Vader… reached out a hand. Rested it on his shoulder.

Luke leaned into him for a hug as well, even as Vader made sure not to touch his back.

"I am surer of this than anything else," he whispered, "since the moment I first held you in my arms."

Then he pushed Luke away. "Now go."

Luke gave him one last beseeching gaze.

"Go," he reiterated, "and I will take care of this."

Luke nodded. Climbed over the side of the ship, to where Vader had tossed a ladder…

And clambered down.

* * *

Vader watched the boat bob away, a small lump disguised underneath the tarpaulin, before he strode back to work, keeping watch.

Luke watched the boat bob away as well. He clung tightly to the figurehead of the _Imperial_ and hid in a cranny, the elaborate decorations on the prow more than suitable for a hiding place.

He had come here to rescue his father.

He wouldn't be dissuaded that easily.


	2. The First Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the _very belated_ second and final part of this fic, but, though it may well be a little rushed, I finally got the chance to sit down and finish it! Many thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy <3

Vader stood at the bow of the ship and stared at the churning water in their wake, allowing himself to release a sigh.

His son had come for him.

More importantly, his son had _left_ for him.

Vader… despite himself… he smiled.

He'd given up so much—suffered so much—to make sure Luke was safe. He had no idea how much time had passed since he'd first joined the ship—he still had no idea, in fact, but Luke's appearance and potential age provided some clues—and so when he sat on his off-shift, staring at the barnacled-encrusted ceiling of his quarters, trying not to listen to the howling of the petrified sailors who'd served before him, he liked to imagine where Luke was.

Was he old and grey, by now, as Vader gathered and tormented the dozens and hundreds and thousands of men who'd died at sea? Or had barely any time passed at all—was he still a young child, watching the horizon with wide eyes for a father who would never come home? Did he look like the spitting image of his father, or was his mother present in his face? Was he blue-eyed like his father? Brown-eyed like his mother? Or something entirely different, his own?

Had centuries passed? Was his boy long dead, long lost to the man who'd chosen servitude over death? Was he obsessing over a ghost?

And what was he _like_?

Had he stuck to the safe, safe land in his years, and whiled away a living there? Had he found a family, had he found a job, had he found happiness? Or had he chased the siren song of the sea, and doomed himself to his father's miserable fate on the waves?

Would Vader one day have to reap his son's soul, as well?

It was an unending fear of his—something that tightened a heart caked in coral. He couldn't shake it, like Padmé's ghost; it would always be there.

Luke.

Luke.

She had named him Luke, after all.

Their son was called Luke, and now Vader was going to make it up to him for all the years of separation they had endured.

He reached for his belt, and palmed the wicked little knife there. He saw in his mind's eye what he had to do: he remembered Palpatine declaring him his most trusted underling, informing him as to the location of the chest he kept close, the key.

He knew what would happen when his blade pierced the heart within.

Luke, evidently… did not.

Vader had not told him.

He would try to stop him; he could not understand why his father had to make this sacrifice.

For a moment, Vader knew nothing but rage. At Palpatine… at Kenobi, for selling him to Palpatine in the first place, and for trying to sell his son.

The Jedi creed was doomed. He'd seen too many dead sailors sworn to their supernatural ways, their deals with demons and barters with powers beyond their comprehension, either spit in Palpatine's face when he offered them a chance to defy death, or absorbed into the horrors of the crew, to see their spirit shatter. Striking bargains with the supernatural like the Jedi had was foolish, no matter how careful one could be—and if Luke continued to try to dabble in the magics of the sea, he would be doomed.

Obi-Wan had spent his life trying to pay off the debt to Palpatine incurred by his forefathers. Dooku had done his duty and now served as a shell-studded wall decoration in the main saloon, but Qui-Gon had not paid, and had died on land when Palpatine sent his men after him. His soul had never been claimed… but the debts he incurred in the use of his magics had only stacked up.

Five souls owed for the ship, and the use of the Jedi arts.

Then Palpatine added interest, and it was twenty-five.

Obi-Wan had not learnt. Fifty. Seventy-five.

Vader had been a fool not to listen as well.

He had been even more foolish to try to offer himself up to mitigate the damage.

He'd had a wife. He'd had a son, on the mainland, waiting for him—and he'd done it for them, so they could live in the better world he'd been taught to envision. Obi-Wan was supposed to rescue him after a week, he was supposed to sneak on board and then they would enact their plan: get the key, get the heart, kill Palpatine.

Anyone who killed Palpatine, took his place.

If Vader killed him… Luke would be safe. It would be _Vader_ reaping souls and guiding them to the aftermath, and Vader would not reap his own son; he would be able to protect him at sea, even, and ensure his journey was a smooth one.

The plan had been for Obi-Wan to do that. Take Palpatine's place and create a Golden Age for the Jedi—with the head of the Order as the cursed being who handed out supernatural boons, who gave them their magical advantage at sea, there would be no more debts to worry about. Far less risk. They could revolutionise sea travel, trade, diplomacy, without the high, high costs they had previously paid.

But Obi-Wan had never come for him.

Anakin had discovered the whereabouts of the key, the heart—become Palpatine's top lieutenant. But Obi-Wan had never come for him.

He missed his wife.

He missed his son.

He wondered if Luke's presence here meant that she had survived the illness he'd feared, and gone on to encourage their son in his dreams, or if it meant she had died and Obi-Wan had taken the boy in.

Had she died? Had the illness killed her?

Had the very thing that Anakin had been willing to sell his soul to get the power to prevent killed her?

There were so many questions, but so few answers, and he knew he would get none until Palpatine was dead and he saw Luke again.

Whenever that may be.

The captain of the _Imperial_ could only set foot on land once every ten years.

He took a deep breath, felt it rattle through his cursed, sea-stained bones, and turned away from the side of the ship.

If there was a sigh of relief behind him when he did, he did not hear it.

* * *

Palpatine was in his quarters this late at night, of course. The music drifting from them made it clear he was awake, and he would be awake for a long time.

Hopefully the haunting music would hide Vader's steps from hearing.

Vader had never quite understood what the allure of Palpatine's beloved organ was, for him. He'd certainly been a man of culture before he was tricked into this deal, cursed and banished from the land for all but one day every ten years. Vader wondered why the goddess of the sea had ever chosen _this person_ for this job: he was cruel, he was sadistic, and what was more, he had not been a sailor when he was made to captain the most infamous ship on the seas.

It didn't matter.

Palpatine's rage at the life stolen from him—he had been a politician, well on his way to becoming an emperor—had translated into greater cruelty, greater menace, and no one died gently under the cold waves, anymore. Not when he was there watching them.

Vader was not dead—not yet. He had not been dead or dying when he came here, and he was delaying nothing.

He could have gone home at any time. Palpatine knew that.

Palpatine knew when his loyalty to Obi-Wan had turned to rage. He'd thought he could turn that into loyalty to him.

He hadn't.

The key was easy to find. He knew where it was, and he knew how to get it. One of the oldest crewmates on the ship—or rather, _in_ the ship—was Mas Amedda: his sleeping face, mouth open like he was screaming even in paralysis, loomed over the entrance to Palpatine's quarters, studded with shells and seaweed draping over his shoulders like a cloak, or some mockery of hair.

He'd been bald even in life.

Vader was tall; he reached up easily, feeling into his screaming mouth, then deeper—down the throat, until his bony fingers struck something coarser than coral, and he closed his fingers around the thin string and pulled it up.

Amedda's eyes flew open with a loud gasp as the key struck loose, ringing his vocal cords like a bell as it clinked out. With one hand, Vader clenched the key at his side, held it close in his pocket; with the other—

He grabbed Amedda's head and shoved it back into the hollow it had made above the door, shoving his jaw closed so hard it might shatter under his grip. Amedda shuddered.

Then, after a moment, he sank back into the wood and was still.

Vader muttered, "God help me get off this wreck before I become like you." He didn't know if this side effect of servitude was another example of Palpatine's sadism, or if it had always been the fate of those men who wanted to cheat death to find something far worse than dark and peaceful rest.

But he clenched his hand around the key. No. This… this would be fine; there was nothing that would not be set right. Obi-Wan would not become Captain of the _Imperial_ , but _Vader would_ ; Vader would find a way to avoid this fate, for himself…

…and for his son.

He prayed that Luke would never die at sea.

He did not want to either reap his son's soul, or condemn him to this life on a ship.

First, he needed to stab the heart. His blade was heavy in his pocket.

The chest would be… the more difficult part of this endeavour.

It was kept in the depths of the organ, and Palpatine was…

Palpatine was no longer playing the organ.

Vader gritted his teeth. So that was how this would go, then.

He lifted his hand and knocked on the door. Mas Amedda's frail corpse rained thin slivers of rot down on him with the motion.

"Enter, Vader." Palpatine sounded amused. Vader entered, releasing his grip on the key and leaving it in his pocket, as he stood ramrod straight and button up the front of the collection of threads he called a shirt in an effort to look... _respectable_.

Palpatine looked even more amused at the attempt. "What do you have to say to me?"

Vader said, "Skywalker has left the ship."

"Oh?" Palpatine rose from the seat of his organ and glided over to him, the shifting sands of his face crumbling and reforming into a sinister smirk. "How convenient."

Vader said nothing.

"I am not a fool, Anakin—"

"Master—"

"I am aware you shed that name in response to Kenobi's betrayal long ago, but it is relevant to the discussion at hand. Do you not want _your son_ to sail the seas with you? Do you not deny his company? You could have been together; I know you have missed him, all these long years."

Vader ground out, "I had no say in his leaving. He was sent here by Kenobi in ignorance; when he realised what the truth of his treachery was, he left."

"Indeed? Did he know you were his father?"

"I did not tell him and nor did Kenobi."

"But he was clever enough to figure it out on his own?"

Vader dipped his head, feeling his hair shift over his shoulders. "He… was."

"You are shaken."

"My son is gone."

"For better or for worse?"

Vader glared at Palpatine. Palpatine laughed, his shoulders heaving with the motion, sending his long, leathery black robes heaving like an orca's flapping tail.

"It is a cruel life on this ship, I will give you that."

"You made me whip him."

"I could not break standard rules for a brat, thirty souls or not. Kenobi truly had gall, trying to hand him over for that many—did he think that the boy's usefulness and attachment to you would make me inclined to accept?"

"You _did_ accept."

"For you, my friend." He moved towards Vader and put a hand on his shoulder. "I know you have been lonely—you are not subtle, when you dream of your child at night. And you yourself have been more than useful. If it costs me thirty souls to get a skilled father-son team on my crew… I will allow the Jedi to alleviate _that_ part of their debt. They will only fall in deeper, soon enough, and we—your son included with _us_ —will reap the rewards of it."

"He is gone. Perhaps Kenobi only intended for him to work as a spy—or as a way to reclaim my loyalty." But Vader let himself be led, over to the organ, where Palpatine returned to his dreadful music.

"Did it work?"

"Of course it did not." That wasn't a lie—Obi-Wan had none of Vader's loyalty.

His son had it all.

"Good." There was a warning in Palpatine's voice; Vader had no intention of heeding it. "So it is a shame that your son has been lost—but perhaps we may see him again. If he is so caught up with the Jedi that he is being used to pay off their debts, then he will undoubtedly stick to the sea… and when he dies, we will see him again."

He sat down at the organ again, and rested one gnarled hand on the keys, the other plucking at Vader's sleeve. _"You_ will see him again."

Vader said, "I intend to."

Then he unsheathed his cutlass in one fluid motion and lashed out at Palpatine with his foot, sending him toppling off the stool—and sending the stool crashing after him.

Vader ignored his startled, _furious_ shout for a moment and kicked in the panel at the bottom of the organ. It was designed to come off, he knew, so he _crashed_ against it, pried at it with the tip of his sword, and then it was open, and _there was the chest_ —

Too late. Palpatine shot to his feet like a cresting wave, face puffing sand in shock, a steel blade summoned to hand from its scabbard. He swung at Vader in fury; Vader parried easily, side-stepping him, and lashed back, slicing off a part of his leather robes. He howled like it was his own skin.

"You _traitor_ ," he hissed.

"You _sadistic bastard_ ," Vader shot back, and attacked.

He couldn't kill Palpatine, he couldn't kill Palpatine—not unless he stabbed the heart, but if he turned to unlock the chest, Palpatine would kill _him_. So he slashed forwards, so hard Palpatine could only deflect, not block, and was back up and moving in another second, stabbing forward, stabbing upward—

A flurry of steel replied and he was forced on his backfoot, stumbling left, right, more to the left, then more, as he retreated from the rapid blows, barely keeping them on his sword and off of _him_. He stepped forwards, planting himself between Palpatine and the organ, fully aware he was limiting his space to manoeuvre but if Palpatine got to the chest this was _done for_ , slashing out…

And in his next desperate footfall, he hit the toppled stool and stumbled.

Palpatine pressed the advantage. Vader was bent over, battling to get upright as blow rained down from above, tendrils of that horrible robe lashing out and tugging at his arm, his legs, damp and rough and _disgusting_. The sword came down and he deflected it to the left, holding it right out, listening to the _screech_ as it slid right down.

Then he charged forward and bodily barrelled into him.

Palpatine shouted again, in shock, but Vader flung him across the room, kicking his sword away for good measure.

He had precious seconds. He turned back to the chest, tried to tug the key out of his pocket, but _which pocket was it in_ , there it was, it was in his hand—

And instinct more than insight had him rolling aside to miss the swipe of steel that would have stolen his scalp, ducking and dodging, his backside hitting the deck hard even as he was on his feet again in a moment. The key scattered across the floor.

Palpatine grinned and picked up the chest, cradling it against _his_ chest like a new-born baby.

"It was a valiant effort, Vader," he said consolingly. "But perhaps when I inevitably have your son indebted to me too, he will not prove as _problematic_."

Vader bared his teeth in a returning grin, fully aware that he was missing half of them. "I highly doubt that."

He slashed forwards, again; with no weapon Palpatine had to duck back to avoid the sword, hissing as it carved a deep furrow in his black back. Vader speared it forwards again, then again; Palpatine stumbled back, his foot hit his sword—and then quick as a whip he reached down to grab it, slashing forwards at Vader in the same stroke.

Vader dodged it neatly and while Palpatine was off-balance, knocked the chest from his arms.

"No!"

Palpatine dived for it. Vader swung one footed foot at it and it sailed to the other side of the room, rattling against the ridged, wooden wall, near the door.

He ducked into Palpatine's way and held his sword aloft before he could head for it.

Palpatine didn't hesitate. He swung, blade singing through the air, gleaming with sweat and moisture and seawater as they battled, clink clink clink, crashing like the waves against the ship, the both of them moving in tune to the ship's heaving with the grace of decades of familiarity with it.

Step to the left, parry, slash at coattails long since swirled away, stabbed forwards, deflect, feel the _thrum_ right down his arm—

Vader overreached with that attack.

Palpatine smacked him in the face, then punched him in the gut on the recoil. Vader stumbled back, hit the organ, gasping for breath. Palpatine twisted the sword out of his hand almost lazily.

It clattered to the floor and he picked it up with his spare hand, wielding them both with irreverent ease.

"As I said," he said, stepping forwards with an almost insulting casualness about him. "A valiant effort."

He stabbed forwards with his sword; Vader ducked to the side, and instead of nailing his head to the organ it sank in deep, splintering the panelled wood. Palpatine scowled.

Left it in there, and passed Vader's sword to his right hand.

"But now, my dear Vader," his face shifted sands again, the open-mouthed smile a gaping chasm in the seabed, "you die."

He raised the sword above his head.

_"No!"_

The word shocked Vader like a dive in cold water, his long-calcified heart thudding to painful, erratic life between his ribs.

The forgotten organ stool collided with Palpatine's side, enough that he staggered back and regained his footing a few feet away, snapping his gaze around to see—

Luke— _Luke_ , Luke? Luke!—flew forwards, planting himself between them, something large and red and _loud_ in his hand—and when he lifted his chin, it was with gritted teeth that he growled, "Back. Off."

Through bleary eyes, Vader studied Luke's form. The position over him. The pulsing, contracting _lump_ in his hand, the wicked silver shard resting on it, the faintest crimson trickle seeping down from the point of contact…

The heart.

Luke— Luke had—

Vader threw his gaze across the room—there was the chest, open; there was the key. There was the chest, _empty_ , and there was Luke…

No.

_Luke!_

Palpatine had frozen in horror.

For a moment, they stared at each other. The ancient, all-powerful captain of the _Imperial_ laid low by a boy with a pocket knife and too much love for his father.

Of course Luke hadn't left when he had told him to.

Of course he hadn't.

Why had he not anticipated that, after the speech he had given him?

How could he have been so _blind_?

And now Luke…

Now Luke was going to…

"No!" he whispered. "No, Luke, don't do this—"

Luke ignored him.

Of course he did.

_"Back_ ," he warned, knife sinking into the pulsating flesh of the heart a little deeper, " _off_."

Palpatine watched him warily for one more moment, and saw… something.

Some weakness in his frame.

Some catch in his breath.

Some trembling in his hands.

"Look at you," he said. "You have never killed anything before. You do not have what it takes to kill me."

And in less than a heartbeat, he had taken two steps forwards and planted Vader's blade in Luke's heart.

Luke gave a little stunned gasp and fell back, collapsing to the ground, against Vader's legs. Vader's heart broke right along with Luke's at the sound.

He'd kept a solid grip on both the heart and the knife, though Palpatine seemed unworried. He just let go of the sword, leaving it embedded halfway up the blade in Luke, thoroughly bloodied, and stepped forwards to ghost a hand along Luke's hair.

"Tell me, Luke Skywalker," he whispered. He was enjoying this. "Do you fear death?"

Luke's eyes were wide and terrified as he turned his face up to behold Palpatine, the last thing any sailor saw, but he contorted his lips in his defiant words anyway.

_"No,"_ he said, quieter and more forceful than earlier, and drove the knife into the heart.

For an eternal instant, there was silence.

Palpatine stared. "You…"

He blinked.

"You…"

He stumbled forwards, grasping out with his hands desperately for balance, colliding with the keys of the organ. It blurted a deep, mournful, _mocking_ symphony.

Palpatine's face twisted into a snarl. _"Skywalker."_

And then the sand fell away entirely, crumbling, and he hit the floor, dead.

Vader did not spare him another glance. "Luke!"

Luke pried his eyes open to smile weakly at Vader. Blood spilled over his lips. "Fa…ther…"

"You will live. Luke, I promise you, you will live—"

"I already said," he whispered. "I am not afraid of death. You don't… need to comfort me."

"Luke, I don't think Obi-Wan told you what his plan was when he sent me here. Or even when he sent _you._ "

Luke frowned. "What…"

"Do you know what happens when someone stabs Palpatine's heart?"

Luke shook his head—spasmed it, more like, but the idea was there.

Vader's voice broke as he whispered, "They take his place."

Luke blinked slowly.

"What does that mean?" he whispered. Vader ran his hands along Luke's arms—arms that were already developing hard, sharp shells at the joints, hair that was shifting to shimmering golden seaweed.

Luke had stopped gasping for breath, now. When he looked down at his chest, he could see through his torn shirt that the wound was bright red, but healing.

When Vader spoke, he could not quite keep the pride from his voice. "You, my son," he bowed his head to him in respect, "are the Captain of the _Imperial_."

* * *

It was days, weeks, later that they approached the island.

Luke, standing at the bow of the ship, could see it on the horizon, its bushel of trees stark against the rising son, and he smiled. He tried not to think about how this would be the last time he was able to set foot on land for ten years.

It would be… difficult.

Life on a ship always was.

And, he thought, tossing a thoughtful look over his shoulder at the men working the sails, scrubbing the decks, he'd inherited a difficult crew.

He wondered how soon it would be before the _Imperial'_ s reputation was not one of cruelty… both for the world, and its crewmates themselves.

He didn't know.

But his father joined him at the bow, and glanced down at him.

"I am sorry it ended like this, Luke," he said quietly. "I wanted to break the curse before this. I wanted you to be—"

"I know, Father," Luke replied, just as softly. "Yours and Obi-Wan's plan went wrong. It doesn't matter: this has gone right."

"You're happy, then?"

"Happy?" He mulled the word over. "Not yet. It's too new and strange. But I will be—and this has always been what the Jedi needed." He cast another glance at the island, wondering how Obi-Wan had reacted to the communique he'd sent him about… everything. Wondering how he would react to seeing Luke, now.

Vader was stiff. "I care nothing for the Jedi. Not anymore."

Luke hummed. "I know. But we will have to deal with them, one way or another. And I have no interest in leveraging such awful debts."

"Hmph." Vader did not sound convinced.

Luke smiled a little. "How many Jedi trainees do you think I can send on random errands all across the ocean before they realise I'm pulling their legs?"

"Far too many."

"Are you willing to make a bet on that?"

Vader observed him. "Yes," he decided. "And you will be held to it."

"You think I would cheat?"

"No. But I am aware of what sort of betting habits Obi-Wan may have taught you."

"I'm glad to know my first mate has such faith in me."

Vader snorted.

But he said, genuinely, "Of course I have faith in you, Luke. You…" He paused. "You saved me."

Luke took his hands, and squeezed them. "I love you." It was as much explanation as confession.

The ship groaned underneath them, and Luke let go. They'd come to a halt; the anchor was going down.

Luke grinned a little. "Time to go terrify Obi-Wan."

"Agreed," Vader looked at him, then added, "Captain."

Luke snorted.


End file.
